


A Storm to Weather

by statichearts



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Introspection, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21699322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statichearts/pseuds/statichearts
Summary: Pain is meant to be felt. As visceral as it can get, as deep as it burrows, you must feel it or it will consume you from the inside out.One shot detailing Mickey’s thoughts and emotions during the events of seasons 6, 7, and 9.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	A Storm to Weather

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write something like this since the end of season 7 but never got in the headspace to get it all out. It's very much a running thought process type of piece. She's a long one but I hope it's worth it.
> 
> I definitely recommend this playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/16Y1LKUh7wdu4jgigCTb2Z or the song 'before you go' by lewis capaldi to get in right headspace.

If Mickey had been able to look at his life from overhead, a voyeur to the path he had battled his way through, he wouldn’t have known how to explain how he arrived here. It was a divergent line to the life he believed he was meant to live. The perfect Milkovich didn’t squander his life for love, didn’t give up his dignity for happiness, didn’t become weak at the thought of another. Milkoviches weren’t supposed to feel this deeply. 

It had burned like acid in his veins when Ian broke up with him in front of the Gallagher house. The remnants of his heart, the parts of it that hadn’t gotten beaten and bruised in his teenage years, ached so heavily that Mickey was sure the muscle would fall apart in his chest. Only leaving behind a shell of the strong person he built himself up to be. Seeing Ian watch him as if they were strangers, pull away from them like Mickey had pulled away so many times before, was a shocking reminder that as Ian had lost parts of himself, Mickey would lose the parts of Ian he was so desperately holding on to. 

The boy he had fallen in love with, had been slipping through his fingers and Mickey was powerless against it. He fought against the loss, put his neck on the chopping block, and he still felt Ian pulling and pulling at the bonds that held them together. Mickey wasn’t even sure if he could blame him. Ian was sick, needed help. He needed help that only Ian had the ability to find for himself. Not that it did anything to quell the churning in Mickey, the feeling only making his heart thump faster as he ran away from Ian, from his sick as fuck step sister. Ran away from the resonating sound of a gunshot being aimed at his head. 

Again. 

Another time. 

Prison had never been much to phase Mickey. He spent a great deal of his childhood behind bars, using it as an escape from punches and kicks, from the berating comments of his father and the screams of his equally punished sister. It was selfish to think of it as a release, to use a punishment as a shelter, but Mickey had learned that his survival had grown to depend on hiding. This time though, the person he was shielding himself from was different. 

When Ian didn’t visit in the first week, Mickey thought nothing of it. Breaking up was one thing but Ian forgetting about him? Never. Ian Gallagher was nothing if not persistent, an ever existing force in his life whether he wanted him to be or not. It was the third week that did him in. During lunch, Mickey found himself staring at the phone, fingers itching around a pen as he drew endless circles on paper to ease the wild nature of his thoughts. Ian was really only a phone call away. Svetlana at worst, knew where he was, knew how he was doing. Was he taking his meds? Was he eating? Sleeping? 

The questions tore at his sanity and ate away at his sleep that Mickey could barely stand by the time the morning rolled around. He puffed up his chest, demanding a circle of protection around him but he didn’t care about anyone or anything. Hours were spent mindlessly, losing it enough to think that there was something left in him to prove. It was a lack of sleep and a dirty needle buried under his inch thin pillow, that gave him the idea in the first place. A piece of broken glass propped up on his shelf and he was silently carving letters into his chest, each one slowly tearing open his skin. 

It wasn’t his fault that the lines had become jagged and the name misspelled against his pale skin. He swore they were right when he did it, would swear that he wasn’t four days without sleep, and the bags under his eyes weren’t from thinking about him. The pain of the cuts didn’t hurt as much as the ever enduring echo of loneliness. The blood blanketed him in temporary relief. Maybe this was enough to prove himself. 

Maybe it was enough this time. 

The wound was still fresh when Svetlana came to visit, instantly chattering away about his next task for the money to fill his commissary account. Every word skirted through his ears while his eyes stayed fixated on the man behind her, the one bouncing his young son on his lap. He brushed her off quickly, agreed to whatever she said so she’d get out of his sight and he’d finally get what he wanted. Mickey’s expectations for this visit had lowered significantly but he didn’t let the thudding of his heart tune out Ian’s voice as it filtered into him, warmed him though he wanted it to do anything but. 

“Thanks for coming back.” Mickey’s lips were turned up into an attempted smile, his body reading nothing if not casual. Indifference at best. 

“Svetlana paid me.” 

That was where Mickey faltered first, the slightest touch of a frown on his face. Another stab into the already weakened vessels of his heart. But he pushed on, kept going, kept trying to get something out of Ian that showed that they were still in love. He still loved him. Mickey showed off the tattoo with pride, gave Ian a full sight of the blackened lines on his skin. He wore it like a badge of honor. 

“I got a new tattoo.” 

The words ‘I did it for you’ were left unsaid. 

The glass between them felt like miles that stretched out in front of them, where Mickey was unable to reach him no matter how close he got. It was the way that Ian refused to meet his gaze that made Mickey’s attempt seem hopeless and yet the words fell out of his mouth anyway, feeling more and more pathetic by the second. 

“Will you?” A breath. “Wait?”

The silence was deafening as the blood rushed through Mickey’s ears, his heart rate picking up dangerously in his chest. It was almost as if he wasn’t breathing at all, the very life sucked out of him. Ian’s lack of response was enough to know the truth. Anything he said now was just meant to placate him except it did nothing of the sort. 

“Yeah, Mick. I’ll wait.” 

Their eyes meant through the dingy glass and Mickey’s breath hitched, his blood running cold as Ian hung up the phone. He took one last glance at him before getting up, not sparing Mickey another single moment of pity. Everyone else in the room had gone, left him staring at the wall with blank eyes as he shakily hung up his own phone. It took a guard yelling his name for Mickey to get moving, shuffling back to the long row of cells that he had started calling home. 

Shaking out his shoulders, Mickey attempted to shake off Ian’s indifferent stare even as his words echoed through his body and made his skin crawl. He pushed his way into his cell, undoing his orange jumpsuit as he barked at his cellmate to bend over. Mickey’s white undershirt was still stained with blood as he pushed his frustrations into his cellmate, regaining his power if only for the moment. 

It wouldn’t always be as cathartic however and Mickey found himself faltering as the days passed, every day Ian was gone. As the years started ticking away, it became easier to deny his hurt but harder to forget how he still yearned for a warm bed and a soft touch. He wanted those whirlwind of emotions to flood his insides again and in impulse, with the long stretch of prison out in front of him, Mickey thought it might be worth risking himself again. There was nothing to delude him anymore. He knew there were other men though he hadn’t heard about them. They’d have their hands where his had been but would they love him? Would they fill any space in Ian’s heart like he once had?

It was impulse that made him seduce the prison guard he’d grown familiar with. The same impulse that dragged his new cellmate into his plan. Escape. Run away. Let go of his shelter for a chance. Mickey had to believe in chances after Ian had warranted him so many. It was his way of making them even, though the scales had tipped in his favor many months ago. It was that impulse of love that made you feel hopelessly brave and that was what Mickey hated. 

Not Ian.

That was perhaps the worst part of all. Once Mickey saw him again, any hatred he should have had for him fell away and they were kids again. Kids meeting under bleachers for a quick fuck, for a joke, a cigarette shared between them. Mickey didn’t tell him how he ran through fire to be there with him again. That the cops nearly caught them twice and he punched bottles at night that left cuts along his knuckles. He didn’t hate Ian but he was mad. Furious. It was a soft simmer that only came out in flickers of pain, brief hints that Ian didn’t seem to notice. It was okay because Mickey didn’t want to punish him. He didn’t want to hurt him. 

Away from prison, it felt like nothing had changed. The passion between them still lit up every single one of Mickey’s senses and he felt the same from Ian. He knew he was better. Ian smiled with that same soft crinkle that both haunted Mickey as much as it healed him. It was the Ian he wanted to hold onto, the Ian that kept him coming back because this Ian did love him. This Ian had the chance of not leaving him. 

As they laid together on the messy backseat of his runaway van, Mickey let himself think of the possibilities. It wasn’t easy, wouldn’t be but maybe a life together wasn’t out of the picture. He’d learned to live his life in a string of maybes, of wishes that might never come true. He held Ian’s hand up against his chest, encapsulated him in his scent, his bruised skin.

“Will I see you again?”

And a kiss, a powerful one at that, reinforced to Mickey that his shot in the dark might lead him to the light he hadn’t seen in years. The sun shone brighter when Ian was around, letting in a break from the darkness of thoughts and abuse he threw at himself. Mickey might never have it all but he’d have this. It was two days to the border and then freedom. 

From his old life. From his family. From black eyes and bloody noses his dad had given him for simply falling in love with a man. From the parts of his existence that served to tear him down when all he wanted was to be good enough. The pair of them were meant for that. Ian and Mickey were meant to make each other happy. Mickey believed that. The suffering was worth it, as long as he came out winning in the end. He’d feel that pain in every layer of his skin for the chance at a happy ending.

“You never fucking visited me.” Mickey spat out as he punched Ian’s arm roughly, smoke blowing past him in the wind. It was a bought of honesty but not nearly every dangerous word that had crossed his mind. He didn’t want to ruin it.

“It was hard seeing you. Through that glass.” Ian muttered back to him, guilt somewhere in his features though the darkness masked it from Mickey’s view.

Mickey cast his head down, inhaling as he accepted that reason as enough. He didn’t let himself ask ‘what about me? wasn’t it hard for me?’. Eventually the stars outside basked them both in a dim light and Mickey laid back to look up at the sky, Ian following suit, his arm pressed against Mickey’s. 

For a minute, Mickey thought about keeping his mouth shut but the silence reminded him of all those days he’d spent in isolation and he had to know. “You ever think about me? When I was in the joint?” His voice hid the tightness in his throat, making a simple question that required only a simple answer. 

“A lot.”

Feeling Ian’s eyes on him, Mickey let out a shaky breath and without meaning to, emotions overcame his body in a way that made him shiver, something he’d blame on the night chill. It didn’t mend everything but for now, it was more than enough.

It had to be.

The end stretch to the border was almost blissful, normal, easy. It lured Mickey into a sense of security that no wanted fugitive should have but here he was, ready to start his new life. It just so happened that Mickey wasn’t prepared for Ian to drag it all out from under him again. 

Once? Twice? What did this count as? Mickey had no idea. He could barely keep track of the days most of the time. Cars rushed past them on the side of a dirt road and yet all Mickey heard was the wind whipping by his ears, a burning hot crawling coming up the back of his neck. His hands curled into fists that he kept firm at his sides and the air didn’t seem to fill his lungs in the same way.

“I can’t.”

Ian’s face gave him away, that glaze of sadness over those eyes that had only been cheerful over the past few days. Mickey didn’t want to believe it. He had taken the chance and yet here he was again, remembering vividly that last time in front of the Gallagher house. He pushed at the money Ian offered him, lashing out but curling in on himself at the same time. Desperation was just as harmful as anger and it was laced in his pleading words.

“I want you to come with me.” 

Mickey wanted to reach out to him, shake him to make him see that this was the right thing for them but if there was one thing he knew better than anything at that moment, was that this Ian was sure about what he was saying. It was the certainty that suffocated him, made him snap when he heard Ian’s ‘I love you’. 

Don’t lie to me. 

Don’t pretend. 

Their eyes connected again and Mickey found himself at a crossroads. He was torn in two pieces, between hating him and destroying himself with anger and regret - or he’d accept it. Move on. Take the pieces of Ian he still had and let that be enough to keep him going, as it always had. He stared at Ian’s face, mapping out the lines in the skin and the pattern of his freckles. Committed them all to memory before closing the gap between them. If this was their last chance then Mickey had to take it, lock it up, and protect it. He’d have to let that be the end. 

There was no peace in breaking away from Ian and no calming the storm that bubbled up inside of him. When he drove off, he didn’t look back. Mickey kept his eyes going straight ahead and promised himself that there was no more going back. Maybe they’d grown too far apart, their love a moment in time that neither of them had the capacity to hold on to anymore. Ian had his own life. Mickey had to find one for himself. 

He smashed his hand into the steering wheel, let out his anguish in a nighttime drive and let that be that. Never to be felt again.

Now Mexico wasn’t ideal. It was a place where fugitives went to hide, not really the breeding ground for a life away from crime and Mickey wasn’t deluded enough to think that was in any way possible. Not for him. He fell in with a crowd of dealers that knew guys he was in prison with. They let him in on for a probational period at first but when Mickey outsold most of the others in two days, they set him up as one of them. The days were about going through the motions, dealing to shit head tourists, and the nights Mickey spent wandering, sometimes trailing off to the beach to watch the sunset on his own. It wasn’t as great as he expected but he blamed that on the company he wanted to have next to him. 

It wasn’t the life of happiness that he had manifested in daydreams but he was getting by and for the first time in a long time, Mickey rested easy at night. His nightmares still shook him, waking up startled every time someone so much as touched him but he was safe. He built a bubble around himself, a protective cocoon that nothing would break him out of. 

Well almost nothing. 

Months later, Mickey was selling in his usual den with the other guys, his hood pushed up to the top of his head to conceal himself. In the distance, a pair of tourists pushed their way through, looking as out of place as humanly possible. He half chuckled as one of his buddies stood there intimidating the pair, almost scaring off a potential sale. Rolling his eyes, Mickey came out of the shadows to ask them what they wanted but the words barely made their way out before he was looking at one of the men with curious eyes. 

To anyone else, it was just a shirt but to Mickey, it was the face that hadn’t escaped his dreams. He let out a puff of smoke nonchalantly as he took their money. “What’s with the shirt?” His words were so cool that he almost surprised himself. 

“Gay Jesus. This guy going to prison in Chicago. Blew up a van to keep the queers from being converted.”

Mickey nearly let out a burst of laughter before concealing it again, his heart thumping more loudly than it had in ages. Once the exchange was done, Mickey turned his back and went back into the shadows. How much time had passed? Had it really all happened so fast? Mickey thought the worst, attempted to justify Ian’s actions for some reason. But he knew something was wrong. And when things went wrong, Mickey came to the rescue, didn’t he? 

It took a whole day for him to think it all through. If he was willing to give it all up for one final chance. No one had looked after Ian the way he had. No one saw the signs as glaringly as he did. But fool me once, right? He thought as he paced back and forth in the darkness, the waves of the beaches lapping at his heels. He told himself that the last time was it. He was done doing this. Done letting his heart be controlled by Ian Gallagher. 

But it was sad how much the heart wants what it wants. 

Mickey swore up and down, his palms sweating when he drove back over the border and got arrested almost immediately. The cops didn’t give a shit at first, pushing him around and making him sit in a cold interrogation room for hours until Mickey made them a proposition. An eye for an eye. Favor for another. It was putting himself in an active pot of boiling water but he had one last shot in him. Enough of his heart left to give and Ian had damn well better take it. 

The next day they shipped Mickey back to Chicago, pushing him in line with all the other prisoners who stared at him like he was an intruder. Some of them were familiar, guys he’d seen around before but being back within those concrete walls was hardly a comfort. He got his bunk assignment, knew who would be there when he got up the stairs but his mouth still went dry. 

Part of him was eager to rub this all in Ian’s face. Spat out at him that Mickey sacrificed everything for him and ask him if he was going to take it now or not so he could do his time and move on. Plan B was riding it out as a free man, the lesser of two options. The walls he kept hidden pushed their way up and he was fully prepared to go in there, angry and combative. 

But it all changed when Mickey saw him. 

His hair was different. Black of all the damn colors in the world and Mickey chuckled internally. It was as if the sun was shining on him again and he couldn’t stop the sly hint of a smirk that turned up the corners of his lips. Ian looked shocked to see him. He shouldn’t have been.

“I rolled on the cartel I was working for and in exchange, guess who gets to pick where he gets locked up?”

The blaring shock on Ian’s face was satisfying in a way that words weren't. Remain aloof, Mickey. Don’t let him win just yet. He pushed past Ian with a joke, clearing the air that was thick between them. Mickey had done the work, put in the miles, spent hours alone, and all for this. Locked up with the man he loved and an uncertain future ahead of them. All Mickey wanted was for Ian to choose him and he’d forget everything else. Every hour they spent apart, every harsh word, every empty promise - Mickey promised to let go of all of it if Ian just picked him.

From the bottom bunk, Mickey challenged Ian with his eyes, not pleading for him like he had times before. No, Mickey had the upper hand now. He needed to have it to protect himself. It was only when Ian moved that Mickey let himself breathe. He exhaled sharply when he felt Ian’s body up against his, his hand touching his cheek. Loving. Happily. The feeling of that alone, a singular touch and it felt right.

Mickey felt it this time. He hadn’t made the wrong decision. They still had a chance at this and Mickey wasn’t going to squander it, hoping desperately that Ian wouldn’t either. The moment their lips touched, Mickey’s anger faded away and was replaced by a blooming in his chest. So unfamiliar that he hadn’t realized what it was. 

Hope. 

Unsafe. Unsure. Crazy. Wild. Whatever anyone wanted to call it but Mickey wanted Ian and if Ian wanted him back, then he’d let him. He’d put himself on the line for the last time and maybe that was okay. That was good. Because Mickey believed in them and believing was better than being alone. 

Mickey would forget about it all. He promised he would.


End file.
